


Olive Oil

by casstayinmyass



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Awkward Dates, Coming In Pants, Crack, Daddy Kink, Desperation, Dinner, Dirty Talk, Drama & Romance, Dry Humping, F/M, Graphic Description of Thrussy, Grinding, Making Out, Neck Kissing, Neckz 'n' Throats, Oil, Oil as Lube, Olive Oil, Other, Papa Just Wants To Get Throat Fucked, Public Display of Affection, Public Sex, Restaurants, Romance, Throat Licking, Wet & Messy, thrussy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27892213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: You and Papa share a romantic dinner together, with a few cute surprises along the way!
Relationships: Papa Emeritus III/Olive Oil, Papa Emeritus III/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	Olive Oil

**Author's Note:**

> Olive Oil

It was a beautiful sunny day in Orkney, Orkney. Terzo had insisted that before you ended your vacation to the remote, outer floating islands of the United Kingdom, he take you for dinner.

“Come, _bagno dello sperma_ ,” he yells affectionately, tucking you under his arm as he leads you to the doors of an Italian restaurant situated on top of an old barn on the moors. The host brings you to your table with a polite smile, and Papa pulls your chair out for you. “You look so wonderful today,” he says. He orders the fresh Italian spaghetti with a bottle of olive oil. It comes two minutes later. It wasn’t fresh, it was kept under a heat lamp, but Terzo was too busy staring at your lips to notice.

“What are you looking at?” you ask bashfully.

“The mole on your upper lip. I would like to eat it.” 

You startle, but Papa just chuckles. “I am only kidding! Sort of. I would like to kiss you too. Nibble a little bit.” He swirls the first forkful of spaghetti around, and brings it up to his mouth. “Not enough of the olive oil.” He lifts the bottle, and glugs out about a litre of olive oil. You stare at it. Lots of olive oil.

“Papa, that’s a lot of olive oil,” you moan.

“Si,” he groans, slathering the pasta in it. “I am from the Italy, eh? We like the olive oil. In fact I have always loved it quite a lot.” He gasps as he lifts it up to his mouth. “Not enough.” Papa glugs another two litres of olive oil out into the bowl of spaghetti. It spills over onto the table. It spills off the table and drips down to form a puddle at Papa’s feet. He licks his shiny, greased up lips. “Deliciosso.” You watch him in arousal as he licks his fork clean of the oil, then dives back in, catching a noodle swimming in the pool of olive oil. The server comes over, visibly distressed.

“Has there been an accident, monsieur?!” he rasps worriedly.

“No accident,” Papa belches out, and he lasers the server to death with his eyes. The corpse absorbs the olive oil at Papa’s feet. All is well.

“It’s been so lovely being on vacation with you, Papa,” you smile. He takes your hand in his gloved one. His white glove is yellow, from the olive oil.

“It has been one of my greatest pleasures seducing you and treating you like royalty this past weekend, tesoro.” He kisses your palm, his oily tongue licking over your knuckles and suckling them. He takes another forkful of pasta, and you see it—the oil dripping down his chin. It’s making the paint run, and fuck... it’s dripping down into the folds of his throat flaps. Loose flappy skin covered in unsightly shaving nicks and extra virgin olive oil makes your heart beat a little faster. You shouldn’t be aroused by this, yet here you are, turned on watching the thrussy drip like a pussy.

“Papa,” you breathe.

“Mm?” he moans. His hooded eyes meet yours, ripe with desire. “I see you looking, piccolo tappeto. You wish to taste?” You don’t know if he means his pasta, or his juicy neck folds. They’re so slick—every time Papa talks, the folds rub together. More olive oil drips down, and it looks like his thrussy is squirting.

“Fuck,” you gasp, rubbing your legs together.

“You like my fucking neck, si?” he growls. “I can see it in your eyes. You are so transparent in your want, little one. Come to Papa. Show him the devotion he deserves.”

You lean over the table, and dip below his chin to slide your tongue through the throochie folds. The skin is leathery like an old redneck man or roast slabs of beef, some whiskers but hardly any abrasions to displease your taste buds. He tastes vaguely of the sweat that gathers under a ballsack, because he had been sweating between the two luscious, swollen plumps of skin around his Adam’s Apple all day. He also tastes of olive oil.

“Fuck my _umido gola_ , tesoro, ah!” Papa moans. You slide your tongue up through the oily lips of his neck and up to his real lips, letting the taste of his own undeniable throat arousal and olive oil linger on his tongue. He grinds up into you, cock hard in his pants, and you climb down over the table to sit in his lap. The entire restaurant is looking at you now, but you and Papa don’t care. The server is still dead at your feet. Nobody cares.

“I wanna tongue fuck your neck so bad, daddy!” you blurt. Papa pulls you against his hard on and starts to hump between your legs. You attach your lips to his neck and suck hard. Papa gets the olive oil bottle and pours more down his throat, getting the sticky substance all over your face. Your tongue slides more easily now, and it tastes so strongly of kalamalta olives.

“I’m going to cum,” he rasps. “Per favore, serve your Papa well.” You whine, and cum in his lap as you slurp so hard at the thrussy that you actually get one of his flaps down to the back of your throat. Deepthroating the thruss fold, you watch as Papa’s eyes roll back in his head. He cums hard through his pants too. His chair breaks. You fall into the pool of the olive oil. You jump forward and start to scissor yourself over his oily neck, your juices mixing with his. You make his throat queef loudly from all the air and olive oil between the folds. Everyone keeps staring.

Suddenly, the general manager comes out.

“Excuse me sir and madam, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he purrs. Papa helps you up. He looks like a bomb just went off in his face, and some of his wig has come off. He’s half bald now. Both of you oiled up and fully fucked out, you leave the small Italian restaurant. Papa picks you up and kisses you in the sunset of the fine day in Orkney, Orkney.

“I love you so, tesoro,” he whispers, kissing your fingers tenderly.

“I love you too,” you say, and when he kisses you, you transfer all the olive oil you’d saved in your mouth from the restaurant to him. Papa swallows it and cums again. You both live happily ever after.


End file.
